


My True Love Has My Heart

by Nineveh_uk



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Bodyswap, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:46:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nineveh_uk/pseuds/Nineveh_uk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harriet Vane and Lord Peter Wimsey have triumphantly solved the Wilvercombe murder, and only want to return to London. But first they must solve a new mystery: why they have woken up in one another's bodies, and what on earth are they going to do about it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My True Love Has My Heart

 

 

 

To'our bodies turn we then, that so  
Weak men on love reveal'd may look;  
Love's mysteries in souls do grow,  
But yet the body is his book.

(The Ecstasy, John Donne)

 

Light slanted through the curtains of Harriet’s room on the first floor of the Hotel Resplendent, Wilvercombe, with private bathroom and view of the esplanade. The case now being murder, Harriet had been unceremoniously ejected from her lodging in Paul Alexis’ former bedroom at Mrs Lefranc’s as the police set about the place with a fine toothcomb, and was once more installed at the Resplendent. She had not, after all, returned to London the previous evening. By the time Weldon and his co-conspirators had been removed and Harriet and Wimsey had given statements to the police, all Harriet had wanted was a good meal and her bed. Wimsey, feeling rather worn himself, had been only too happy to comply. They dined together at the Bellevue, avoiding Mrs Weldon, and Wimsey had arranged to collect Harriet from her hotel at 9 the next morning for the drive home. Harriet was far from sure that she wished to spend four hours in the car with Peter Wimsey, even under Bunter’s chaperonage, but with the full story of the arrests now in the papers the train was even less appealing. She resolved to be punctual, polite, and impersonal. The bedside clock, still half an hour shy of its alarm, suggested that the first of these at least should be no trouble, and she thought she might have another ten minutes in bed before seeing to the packing. She reached out a hand to the bedside table for a book.

It was not her hand. It was too large, and on the end of decidedly too well-muscled an arm, dusted with golden hair. The fingers, too, were long and muscular, with strong knuckles and tipped by square, buffed nails. Wimsey’s hand, on what must presumably be Wimsey’s arm. She leapt out of bed, surprising herself by the distance she travelled, and into the bathroom.

The mirror showed a fair and foolish face wearing an extremely startled expression, pale brows climbing the high forehead, long chin dropped to show rather good teeth. Harriet, aware that her mouth was open, closed it. So did Peter. She turned her face from side to side, and saw a light, mocking look as she did so. She became aware that the tight feeling across her chest was her nightgown, the shoulders of which were decidedly unsuited to those now protruding from it. The prospect of taking it off raised a number of other questions, but the situation being what it appeared, those were probably inevitable and might at least be faced in less discomfort. She wrapped a towel around her waist and pulled the offending garment, not without a little difficulty, over her head. Now what? She appeared to be wearing Peter’s body. It was only fair that Peter should be told as soon as possible – assuming that he was available to be told. But it would be foolish to worry him unnecessarily. It was still early and it might wear off, and then where would one be? Was Peter’s affection sufficient to keep one from Colney Hatch? Very well, the telephone could wait. What next?

The telephone rang.

*

One of the many pleasures of his lordship’s employ, reflected Mervyn Bunter, making a minute adjustment to his collar in the reflection in the silver coffee pot, was his employer’s disinclination for early morning rising. The photography of deceased persons in an inadequate state of preservation would have been a small price to pay for such advantages, even had Mr Bunter not been inured to corpses long before entering his lordship’s service. Balancing the breakfast tray in one hand, Bunter entered his lordship’s bedroom in the Hotel Bellevue at his usual civilized hour. His lordship, not unusually, did not stir as Bunter set the tray on the small table, drew back the curtains with a merciless hand, and turned towards the bed.

His lordship was not in it. It was not, however unoccupied. Where his lordship’s head usually rested upon the pillow reposed a tousled head of distinctly darker hue, rising from a decidedly more feminine neck and throat, the rest mercifully concealed by his lordship’s pyjama jacket. Well! It was not, perhaps, entirely surprising. To Bunter’s experienced eye, the young woman in question had appeared decidedly susceptible on more than one occasion during the past fortnight, and his lordship did not lack expertise in these matters. It was true that his lordship was not generally given to indiscretions in hotel bedrooms where his servant might stumble at an inopportune moment, but allowance might be made for the strains of the investigation. It was certainly a welcome change from his usual reaction to an arrest, and the sleeper’s somewhat tousled air was decidedly encouraging. On the other hand, the young lady, though evidently not lacking in experience, was perhaps less possessed of _sang froid_. Bunter was passing swiftly and silently through the door, when an unexpected voice called him back.

‘Bunter – what the devil?’

It was not her voice. The rich, low, woman’s tones were hers, but the cadence was quite different, quick and light, and the expression on the face, the eyes half-closed against the morning light, one he would have recognised anywhere.

‘My – my lord?’

‘Whatever’s happened to my voice? Have I swallowed a frog or something? I’m positive I didn’t drink that much last night, and I don’t _think_ I’ve a cold.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bunter, proffering the glass, ‘a little water might be beneficial.’ He was beginning to feel a trifle faint himself.

Wimsey grunted, drank, and tried again. ‘That’s – no, that’s not right. It’s odd, my throat doesn’t feel at all sore.’ He rubbed at his neck, stopped, and passed a hand very slowly over his chin.

‘That’s – damned odd.’

‘My lord,’ said Bunter carefully, ‘has your lordship looked in the glass since retiring?’

‘No. Has it cracked from side to side or something?’

Bunter wordlessly handed the shaving mirror to his master.

‘Good God,’ said Wimsey faintly. ‘The curse has come upon me. Do I take it that I am not hallucinating?’

‘I do not believe so, my lord.’

‘Perhaps it would help if I tried waking up again.’

‘I fear not, my lord.’

‘Bunter, what the hell is going on?’

Under other circumstances, Wimsey would have been amused to observe that for the first time in almost two decades of association, Mervyn Bunter appeared to be at a complete loss. He picked up the cup of coffee he had poured for his master, drained it rapidly, and shook his head.

‘I regret to say, my lord, that I haven’t the faintest idea.’

Wimsey studied his face in the mirror. It was by this time a very familiar face, if not so well known as his own and oddly reversed in the glass. He tried a smile, and the lips curved tentatively upwards in an expression heart-stopping in its familiarity.

‘My God, Bunter! If I’m – what’s happened to Harriet?’

*

Harriet thought rapidly as the telephone shrilled. Ordinary conversation was clearly impossible; one couldn’t answer the phone at half-past eight in the voice of Lord Peter Wimsey. One never knew with the operators of hotel telephones. But it wasn’t as if he were a Russian bass crying out of the depths; surely Peter’s light, husky tones might be schooled to be suggestive of no more than a slight cold.

She picked up the instrument.

‘Miss Vane?’

‘Speaking.’

‘This is Bunter speaking, Lord Peter Wimsey’s man. I hope I have not disturbed you at an untimely hour?’

‘Oh, no, not at all.’

‘His lordship has asked me to telephone you on his behalf. I regret to say that he is not feeling quite himself. I have your papers here to return to you. Would it be convenient to call with them at nine o'clock? The somewhat topsy-turvy nature of recent events, if I may so refer to them, have not permitted his lordship to arrange an appointment.’

‘What – oh! Yes. It has been quite - hasn’t it? Nine would be quite all right.’

‘I am afraid that your throat has not improved since yesterday, miss. These sudden changes in the climatic conditions are most disturbing to the tissues.’

Harriet took her cue to cough delicately.

‘With your permission, I shall take the liberty of obtaining a soothing draught from the chemist.’

‘That would be very kind of you.’

Bunter rang off with the usual politenesses. Evidently, thought Harriet, she was not alone in her situation, and the question of where exactly Peter was had been well and truly answered. Thank God for Bunter, who at least appeared to be the right person in the right body and the right mind, and could be relied upon to do the right thing. Bunter was a marvel. It might almost be worth marrying Peter if one could thereby have one’s life managed by one so efficient as Bunter. It was a quarter past eight. Bunter would arrive in forty-five minutes bearing clothes and, she fervently hoped, a plan of action. In the meantime one might as well get on with things. The thought of breakfast intruded itself. Breakfast was a necessity. A moment’s reflection, however, suggested that breakfast was not very practical. It was scarcely possible to descend to the dining room, and even breakfast in one's room involved too great a risk of intercourse with the maid. Harriet had no desire for the Resplendent’s staff to discover Lord Peter Wimsey in her bedroom at dawn in a state of undress, and several journalists were still in residence in the town. Breakfast must wait.

The matter of dress was equally impossible. She had essayed a sweater without success. But one could wash. Peter, being of the fastidious type, had undoubtedly bathed last night, but Harriet Vane had shirked it and one didn’t know how these things transferred. Besides, other needs were beginning to make themselves felt and would have to be attended to before too long. She marched in the direction of the bathroom.

*

It was not, thought Wimsey, that he had never wondered how Harriet might look in a pair of silk pyjamas. He had done so often, and now that the opportunity for confirmation had arisen, the figure in the wardrobe mirror looked much as he would have expected; utterly charming and alluringly disheveled, albeit wearing a somewhat more anxious expression than a man would hope to see on the face of the woman who had just woken up in his bed.

‘I take it,’ he said to Bunter as that man rang off, ‘that the problem is a shared one.’

‘I am afraid so, my lord.’

‘How did she sound?’

‘Like a person with a severe head cold, my lord. It was an excellent imitation. Fortunately, I expect a suitable tonic will relieve the symptoms without delay. If your lordship refers to the young lady’s state of mental equilibrium, I may say that she was remarkably calm.’

‘That’s more than I feel. It’s a hell of a thing, Bunter. Inside, it’s exactly the same. If I closed my eyes, I shouldn’t know, as long as I didn’t move too much. But you’ve no idea how often one looks at ones hands. Come to that, I can’t look at anything without seeing the difference. I’d no idea my nose was such a presence; I keep catching a glimpse of where it ought to be and wondering.’

‘Most disconcerting, my lord.’

‘I don’t suppose Harriet will have managed any breakfast. You’d better order some more.’

‘Very good, my lord. Does your lordship wish me to draw the bath?’

The face in the mirror froze.

‘D’you know, I don’t think that I will.’

Pyjamas were one thing, a bath quite another. Harriet – Harriet might forgive him, but it would be impossible to forget. Peter contemplated the prospect of a shower, perhaps with the eyes closed, and found it even less enticing. He had bathed last night, washing off the grime of a sordid case, and no doubt Harriet had done the same.

‘Bunter?’

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Do I smell?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then that’s settled. Send for some more coffee, and get thee to the Resplendent. The grey suit, I think.’

‘Most appropriate, my lord.’

Wimsey settled back in the armchair and stared at Harriet’s nails. They were good, strong nails, though evidently cut straight with a pair of clippers and not manicured. When they were married, he must - He cut off the thought and screwed his fingers together. What mattered now was getting them out of it. The rest – most of it – could wait.

*

An American gentleman not having recently vacated his room, Harriet's present accommodation, though desirable enough, was somewhat oddly shaped. There was a passageway between the bedroom and the bathroom, adorned with a large mirror. Harriet found herself staring at it and pondering the advisability of plans that moments before had seemed well-laid. There were some things that could not be avoided, but was the rest quite fair? What would Peter think? And in a comparable situation, what would Peter do? Would he – she rather thought not. But then the circumstances were different. Thousands of years of civilization had pinned the female body firmly in the sex category: the male was merely funny. Besides, she had not known Peter two years without being well aware that he was clean as a cat. Scrutiny of his naked form by the woman he regularly professed love to might embarrass him, but to don a clean shirt without an intervening bath must appall. Very well, she should be clean and brave, and face the business squarely.

Shoulders, calves, had been reviewed in a bathing suit and passed inspection. They did so again with little further hold on the attention. Nor were other awful secrets concealed beneath the immaculate tailoring. A hairless chest, and a bruise on the hip suggestive of having walked into the corner of a table, the long feet a little larger than expected. The rest in proportion.

Harriet lowered her head into the steaming water of the Hotel Resplendent’s bathroom and sighed. She hoped she would not be trapped in this position too much longer, even a mere inch or so of extra height making the bathtub less luxurious. When she returned to London she must change her flat. Doughty Street had done very well for a time, but its bathing arrangements were not what one might wish for, and few things soothed the spirit like copious amounts of hot water. She ran a hand over her chin and contemplated the prospect of a razor. Perhaps on the whole, it would be better not to shave; even Peter would surely rather appear in public unshaven than with his face cut to ribbons.

She reached for a towel and dried her face before climbing out of the bath, noticing as she did so the powerful thrust of the thigh muscles. Rubbing herself dry with her usual briskness, Harriet wondered vaguely why she was not more perturbed by the whole business. Surely any self-respecting female who found herself exchanging bodies with her suitor ought to be more squeamish; hadn’t Peter himself accused her of a coarsening of the fibres? Could he see her now, drying his back with some energy, he might wonder if Harriet’s fibres were coarsened not to cocoanut matting, but steel wool. Naturally it was inconvenient, and one hoped fervently that it might be solved as soon as possible, but there was no point in dwelling on the rest more than necessary. The shock to modesty was subsumed in the greater shock to the self; it was far too ridiculous to be felt personally.

There must be a cure, of course. One couldn’t stay like this forever. One had one’s work to do, and though writing had the infinite benefit over office work that one could do it in another form, it would be beastly seeing someone else taking credit for it. Friends and family must be a problem, too. Harriet had rather few of the latter, but Peter had a mother and brother and sister and must see them from time to time. She had a sudden vision of herself impersonating Peter in front of Charles Parker. That might be rather amusing; one suspected Mr Parker would be interesting to meet as a man among men; but it was not sufficiently amusing to justify a long continuance of the situation. Of course, it would be a great deal simpler if they lived together – but _that_ was not a solution for the present case, even if afterwards one might write a comic novel about it or perhaps a play. She sketched it out for her own amusement: a man and woman who swapped bodies would find themselves having to marry in order to manage their lives. Should they have an independent income – no, dull jobs would be more entertaining, and of course they should each be better at the other’s through novelty if nothing else. Somewhere around the end of the second act they would swap back and have to decide what to do about it.

Harriet shook herself. It had been one morning, less than that; there was nothing to be gained by worrying about the future, and plays were unreliable as a source of income. She ran her brush through Peter’s hair, failing entirely to manage the parting, and retreated to the bedroom to lay out some clothes in anticipation of Bunter’s arrival. Not for the first time in recent weeks, Harriet wished she had packed for her holiday with a little less of an eye for comfort and a little more for elegance. Or indeed that female clothing more easily combined the two. She selected such garments as offered a tolerable compromise; the old tweed skirt had at least been good once.

*

Mr Bunter looked up and down the hotel corridor with an unaccustomed furtiveness, and announced his name as he rapped upon the door. It opened to admit him as if it ran on rails, and shut rapidly as a figure stepped out from behind it.

‘Good morning, Bunter.’

It was assuredly his lordship, clad only in a towel and an expression of studied neutrality that Bunter recognized as too often the prelude to a restless night.

‘Good morning, miss. I trust you slept well?’

Harriet laughed. ‘As a matter of fact I did. I’m not sure how, but perhaps that’s part of – whatever it is. Is his lordship really…?’

‘Indeed, miss. The likeness is most striking.’

‘Good gracious, poor Peter. Thank goodness you’ve escaped, or where should we be?’

‘The thought had not escaped me.’

‘I daresay.’ Harriet regarded the paper bags in his hands. ‘Have you brought a razor? I couldn’t ask on the phone, but I thought I’d better not make the attempt myself. I don’t suppose either of us would be grateful for having one’s throat cut.’

To a person who had once come to within the human judgment of twelve good men and true of being hanged, the application of three inches of sharp steel to the throat ought not perhaps to have been reassuring. Hot towels, soap, and a neat hand with blade nonetheless did a good deal between them to instill in one a sense that strange as things were, they might at least be manageable for the time being, hoping that time were not too long. Harriet emerged from the bathroom to find the paper bags emptied and a set of clothes laid out upon the bed. She waited for Bunter to withdraw and was wondering how exactly one got rid of him – only, of course not, and probably just as well. Philip had been no pattern of male dress, and there appeared to be an inordinate amount of buttons.

*

‘Good God,’ said Lord Peter faintly. ‘Do I look really like that?’

‘More or less,’ said Harriet. ‘Your stance is better, I think. I haven’t quite got the shoulders right.’

As for herself, she thought, it could be a great deal worse. It was a pity that the pyjamas were that particular shade of primrose, and the dressing gown was rather extravagant for her frame, but there was a certain rakish charm about the arrangement.

‘I’m sure you do me more credit than I you. Have you had breakfast? We’ve extra coffee and rolls, and I restrained myself when it came to the bacon – thought ordering seconds of everything wouldn’t quite be the thing.’

‘I suppose not.’ Bunter, moving swiftly between bed- and sitting room, was unpacking clothes again. Harriet had considered in the car whether she ought to suggest he help Peter dress if necessary; it could not be more peculiar than the prospect of assisting him oneself. But Peter was forty-two, or near enough, and surely had more than a passing acquaintance with the intricacies of women’s clothing. Bunter emerged from the bedroom with empty arms, manoeuvred his lordship into it, closed the door upon him, and lifted the coffee pot.

*

‘My true love hath my heart, and I have hers. What I haven’t got is the faintest idea how it’s happened. Have you?’

‘Not in the least. I’ve been racking my brains over it, but all I can think is that it’s impossible, and we’re supposed to rule that out.’

‘Then let us consider the merely improbable. I didn’t do it, and I assume that you didn’t. Nor does it fall within the scope even of Bunter’s many talents. Thus, someone or something else is responsible. Have you crossed any gypsy queens lately?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m sorry, Peter, but I haven’t any ideas at all. It really is too preposterous.’

‘Isn’t it? However, let us assume there is a reason. The kindest would be that it is some strange atmospheric phenomenon and that tomorrow we shall wake ourselves again.’

‘That would be convenient.’

‘It might be as well not to rule out delusion. I read once of a case that happened in America, Chicago or somewhere like that, in which a man was tricked into thinking he was his own brother and convinced to alter his will.’

‘The Marriott case,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve read it, too. Only you’ll recall that the false solicitor came to Marriott’s own house and met no-one beyond the conspirators, whereas I drove from my hotel to yours with Bunter in an open car. Even if Bunter were also deluded through hypnotism or poison gas or whatever you’re thinking of, I don’t think that the population of Wilvercombe could have failed to notice Harriet Vane in the front seat of the Daimler wearing a man’s suit and hat. Besides, Constable Ormonde was on traffic duty.’

Wimsey accepted this argument, and retreated thoughtfully into his coffee as Harriet completed her breakfast. Wimsey's restraint in the matter of bacon was less satisfying to the appetite that she might have hoped, and she eked out the business out with rolls.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I suppose you’ve noticed that the voices are all wrong? Not the pitch, I mean, but the manner.’

‘Yes. What are we to do about it? I don’t think I could pretend very well to talk like you. The legs and arms and things seem to manage quite well on their own, but as soon as I open your mouth it’s all my tongue.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Wimsey, faintly.

‘Do you think we ought to make the attempt? I’m not sure I’d be very convincing.’

Bunter coughed delicately. ‘If I may say so, miss, I do not consider that necessary. Although to the familiar ear the expression in the voice is distinct, in my opinion there is insufficient intimacy with the Wilvercombe constabulary for it to be detectable. I would venture to suggest that the attempt at imitation would be the more noticeable rather than less.’

‘Quite right,’ said Wimsey. ‘The only stage I’m fit for is the great stage of fools, and the natural approach covers a multitude of infelicities. Though I’d rather avoid Mrs Weldon.’

‘I think you’d better’ agreed Harriet. ‘We’ll have to dine here tonight, unless you’d rather go back to London.’

‘I think not, until we’ve a better idea of what’s goin’ on.’ Wimsey ran his hands through his hair. Harriet winced.

‘I do beg your pardon, I keep forgettin’. It’s strange that one should with you sittin’ there, but so it is. It ought to feel like wearing gloves or something, but it doesn’t.’

‘I feel the same. I wonder, could it be the place? Wilvercombe, I mean, the effect of some sort of _genius loci_ that’s upset at our disturbing the place. What if we were simply to drive a hundred miles east? We might just change back, preferably not while travelling at seventy.’

Wimsey took this thrust with dignity.

‘It’s worth a try. One does hear peculiar stories about places, and the most peculiar perhaps don’t get told. Let’s go this afternoon, if we don’t think of anything better.’

‘All right. Do you feel any urgency to return to London? I mean, have you any unmissable appointments?’

‘I don’t think so, not until we’ve exhausted investigations here. Unless you’d rather?’

‘Definitely not. I might be able to pull off Lord Peter Wimsey in a seaside town, but I couldn’t possibly in Piccadilly.’

‘Nor I Miss Vane in literary London. Your _genius loci_ idea; I wonder whether it’s Wilvercombe we ought to try distancing ourselves from, or one another on the same principle. If _one_ of us drove a hundred miles and the other stayed here, would that break the spell?’

‘I see what you mean. Let's try together first, and if that doesn't work, one of us can go tomorrow. Why don't you do it, if you like? It's your car, and the prospect of changing back at any moment will force me to stay in and work. This was supposed to be a much shorter holiday and I haven’t written nearly as much as I ought. My agent will think I’m slacking off.’

‘Nonsense! He will think that you’ve been getting some very useful publicity, and probably boast to all his competitors how beneficial it is for their mystery authors to view a murder enquiry from a front row seat.’

‘I think I’ve seen that quite closely enough already.’

‘My dear girl, I do apologise. I didn’t think’

‘Obviously not. I can’t -’

Wimsey held up a hand.

‘Pax, pax! I’m sorry, I’m an ass and deserve to be kicked, but we can’t possibly argue in this state, it’s too ridiculous. Mayn’t we put it aside for the present? _You_ won’t beat me and I, I assure you, shall not propose.’

Harriet considered this and laughed.

‘All right. Listen, I haven’t had nearly enough breakfast and we can’t order any more. Let’s walk into town and acquire sandwiches and things, and go for that drive.’

‘Why not? Bunter had better put up some spare clothes in anticipation of a happy event. Have you a Burberry or something to wear over this? If I change back, it isn’t going to fit.’

‘I’ve one at the hotel.'

'Splendid. Bunter, have the car ready at twelve-thirty. We'll drive for an hour and find somewhere for a picnic. You'd better do the drivin': Miss Vane is right, _Richard's himself again_ might be dashed inconvenient at the wrong moment.'

*

A circuit of the town and promenade had been completed with nothing more alarming than Peter’s forgetting to allow his companion to open the doors, and they were strolling in the direction of the Belle Vue Hotel when Sally Hardy appeared.

'Wimsey! Glad I’ve caught you. I owe you an apology, old man. The headless corpse on Hampstead Heath was a department store mannequin. I ought to have stuck with you. Come and have a drink and tell me the latest.'

Seated in the bar, Harriet contemplated the possible effects of brandy and soda on an empty stomach and shuddered. It was all right for Peter, who had ordered coffee, but Hardy was already on his second glass and she suspected that masculine codes required her to at least drink one.

'I bet you feel pretty pleased by the arrests, Miss Vane,' said Hardy. 'Bit awkward, your finding the corpse like that. I daresay the Inspector might have made himself a bit unpleasant before old Wimsey here turned up.'

Peter looked staggered, but rallied well enough.

'Nonsense, Mr Hardy! Surely not with the _Morning Star_ on my side? I do hope your circulation isn't dropping. My agent was negotiating a serialisation, but I might have to think again if you're losing sales.'

'Nothing like it, Miss Vane. You stick with us.'

'We'll see about that.'

'Quite right, Miss Vane,' interrupted Harriet, feeling that things had gone far enough. 'Never take business advice from a journalist. What will you do with our murder now, Sally? You must have sucked Wilvercombe pretty dry.'

'Oh, a final statement from Lord Peter Wimsey and Miss Harriet Vane to wrap it up, I think. We'll want to save some stuff for the trial. You know that sort of thing: difficulties of farming in Huntingdonshire, role of depressed economic conditions in murder. The imperial Russian angle's about played out, but we might do something with young men succumbing to Ruritanian fantasies. Anything you want to tell the _Morning Star_ , Miss Vane?'

'Not really. If you insist - I commend the police for their identification of the culprits, the _Morning Star_ for the bit with Mr Bright, and am glad to have been able to play some small part in the solution of this brutal crime. Oh, and add something about _The Fountain Pen Mystery_ , which has been proceeding nicely. Will that do?'

'I suppose it will have to. What about you, Wimsey? Delighted to have been able to assist Miss Vane in an hour of need?'

'Honoured to have been allowed in on the thing,' said Harriet firmly. 'You don't need me for this, Sally, you can write it in your sleep. Tell you what, if you write something respectable and let me go now, I'll give you a proper interview in London next week about the whole thing. Will that satisfy you? Harriet, let us away. So long, Sally.'

'That was neatly done,' said Peter, as they hastened to the Bellevue.

'I thought it for the best. Besides, I imagine you do a great deal of cutting off of importunate journalists, I hardly worried it was out of character. You shut things up quite tidily yourself.'

'Thank you. Here is Bunter with the car. Oh, thank you, I keep forgetting about doors. Take the Bristol Road, Bunter, it's perfectly good and quieter than heading London-wards, which will be handy if things go to plan.'

*

Peter's precaution proved unnecessary. Several hours later and some way north of Bristol, they turned the car around. The atmosphere was a little strained. A polite enquiry by Peter as to the progress of Harriet's book, prompting Harriet's introduction of the subject of steam yachts, had passed a little time and revealed Bunter to possess a surprising quantity of knowledge upon the subject, having a nephew who had worked on one for some years. Useful as this was to the professional mind, it was no compensation for the fact that Peter and Harriet remained stubbornly in one another's bodies with no signs of any change. They drove south in silence.

'I'm so sorry,' said Harriet, waking to the sound of the petrol pump. 'How abominably rude of me. Was I asleep long?'

Peter turned to her from the driver's seat. 'Not quite an hour. And you needn't apologise; though I missed your conversation there was some compensation in being able to verify that I don't snore. One's never sure if people are merely being polite. You may consider it a recommendation or otherwise as you choose.'

'I shall take it under advisement.'

'It's the damnedest thing,' Peter continued, 'watching oneself sleep. Almost as if one were dead. Should you care to drive? That is, if you do drive. The reflexes transfer all right, but I'm not sure about the rest.'

'I'd love to drive,' said Harriet. 'I don't get much of a chance these days. My father taught me, but I don't keep a car in London; it's far too expensive.'

Peter hopped out of the front seat rather carelessly, showing more leg than Harriet would have done, and into the back.

'You won't mind my not moving the seat for you, thought it would look a bit queer with that chap standing there. Take if back about three inches.'

The height difference, thought Harriet, was not so much, though Peter's legs were longer. Perhaps the feet made a difference.

'You'll find her heavier than you're used to,' said Peter. 'I was rather surprised myself.'

'If you're going to say that when we are married you'll buy me something light and ladylike, you can save your breath.'

'Nonsense,' protested Peter. 'When we are married you shall buy yourself whatever you like, though I am happy to recommend a garage or two.'

'Have you anything else to recommend? Not to forget the clutch, perhaps?'

'Certainly not. As a matter of fact, she has a Wilson Pre-selector; it's handy if one has a taste for speed. I've put her in neutral, you won't need the choke to start her.'

Harriet, cursing inwardly and endeavoring to remember what little she knew of a Wilson gearbox, manoeuvred the car with reasonable dexterity back to the road.

'I'm sorry,' said Peter, 'I ought to have thought you wouldn't have driven one before. May I tell you how to have the most fun with it? It's awfully jolly, when you get a feel for what you're doing.'

Harriet, considering that it was after all Peter's own reputation at stake, consented. He proved to be a good teacher, unexpectedly deferential to his pupil's handling of the vehicle and refraining from unnecessary comment. They covered the eighty miles to Wilvercombe with extraordinary speed and smoothness, and it was barely six o'clock when Harriet drew the car to a halt outside the Hotel Resplendent, remarking that Bunter had better park her.

'That was splendid, Peter, thank you, though I'm afraid you're right about the weight. I think I should find her a bit much under normal circumstances.'

'You may yet have time to enjoy her. Let's dine at that little restaurant of Antoine's tonight. I'm sick of the Bellevue's menu.'

'We'd better make it eight if we're to be sure of avoiding Antoine.'

'That's true. I'll pick you up at quarter-to, shall I?'

'Certainly not; _I_ shall call for _you_.'

*

Harriet, watching Bunter as he laid out her garments for dinner, wondered how Peter was getting on with her own evening dress. She had hung the frock's accoutrements with it in the wardrobe that morning. Having packed for her walking tour with comfort and convenience rather than fashion in mind, she was glad that the prolonged stay in Wilvercombe had necessitated the purchase of certain garments that at least had the merit of being new.

'Shall I shave you now, miss?'

'Is that really necessary, Bunter? I hardly rose early this morning.'

'His lordship is accustomed to it before dining out.'

'Then I suppose you'd better.'

Though really, thought Harriet, as Bunter attended briskly to the business, Peter was so fair that one could hardly consider it necessary. Unless - well, of course. One could hardly deny that Peter must attend their meetings with certain hopes, if hardly expectations, for the evening. She found herself feeling oddly sympathetic; his illusions at least showed some consideration for his partner.

By the time Harriet reached the Hotel Resplendent, her sympathy had become considerable. Peter's evening dress, perfectly tailored as it was, felt quite extraordinarily uncomfortable. However did men stand it? The shoulders were tight, the stiff collar scraped at the raw skin below the jawbone, and the tie, expertly created by Bunter, felt perilously close to strangulation.

She found Peter waiting in the Resplendent's reception-hall, sunk in blue plush with the evening paper.

'Hullo.'

'Hullo yourself. Harriet, however do you stand this?'

'Whatever do you mean?'

'For a start, I think this belt or girdle or whatever it is, is doing lasting damage.'

'Really, Peter! Why ever are you wearing that? I didn't leave it out for you. It's for the frock I bought to picnic with Henry Weldon, one needs something for that. For God's sake go and take it off, and then you had better tell me how to stand without injury in this contraption.'

The small restaurant provided a good dinner; Harriet took some pleasure in ordering it, although she accepted Peter's suggestion for the wine . The discovery that his taste for it was considerably more subtle than her own made her glad that she had done so, and in any case he was paying for it, courtesy of Bunter who had folded a considerable quantity of notes into her pocket.

'Fearfully interestin' as this experience may be,' he said, 'I think one of us had better take a drive tomorrow, unless we wake up our own selves.'

'I think so. You're welcome to it, if you like. I suppose Bunter had better drive again.'

'Hmm. I hope you're gettin' on all right with Bunter.'

'He combines great efficiency with a sort of silent sympathy. I'm only sorry I haven't a maid to lend you.'

'I have survived on my own resources in my time. Even Bunter must have a holiday sometimes, and I can't stand agency men. I'm afraid I've been rather spoilt.'

'I daresay you have. By the way, if we do find ourselves like this tomorrow, you'd better wash my hair. It'll look awful if you don't, unless you plan to wear a hat all day, and there might still be some press photographers hanging around.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Peter, in tones that suggested he would consider it when the situation arose and not a moment before.

'Please do. If you're suffering from scruples, I should tell you that I had a bath this morning.'

'I see. This sauce is rather good, isn't it? A trifle piquant, but not without subtlety. I wonder how Inspector Umplety has been getting along today? Do you think our conspirators will have cracked?'

'I don't know,' said Harriet, giving up her appearance as a lost cause. 'Not the Morecambes, perhaps. Surely they're better off if they keep quiet and force the police to prove the thing. I'm not sure about Henry Weldon, he might think he can talk himself out of it. He certainly wasn't bright enough to keep away when it was the best thing he could have done.'

'Yes. I think you might have spoiled their plans there. I don't your mean only finding the body, but being so kind to Mrs Weldon. Your involvement gave her an incentive to stay on the spot. If she'd been all alone, with the police tying it up nearly as a suicide, she might have been a great deal more susceptible to being carried home to Huntingdonshire.'

'To be murdered in her turn, poor woman. The Morecambes ought to have known better, too. I know we said they were after the money, wanting to establish it as suicide and not have Mrs Weldon spending quantities on private detectives or anything, but she's got pots of money and she might spend the whole year living in Wilvercombe without making much of a dent in it. Henry had the perfect excuse to go home to his haymaking. If they'd been less greedy and let her stay here alone for a bit and get fed up of it all with Henry making sympathetic noises from afar she'd have got bored eventually.'

'If she didn't marry Antoine first, or any other chap presenting himself with honourable intentions to rob a lady of her fortune by way of marriage.'

'I suppose you're right,' agreed Harriet, 'and perhaps I ought to be grateful for the stupid criminals. If murderers were clever and got on with their murdering without making mistakes, there might be fewer readers of mystery novels.'

'I'd hate to see that,' said Peter. 'I wish you'd told me about this place sooner. It would have been a change from those everlastin' dance lounges. Not that I'd miss dancing with you for the world, but we might have done that afterwards. Will you have some more wine? It's rather good.'

'I will, but you'd better not if you don't want to feel dreadful in the morning.'

'Damn!'

'Why are you surprised? You must have noticed I have less than you if you're anything like as observant as you claim to be.'

'Ye-es,' admitted Peter, 'but I thought - '

'What?' interrupted Harriet angrily. 'That I'm afraid if I have a glass too much I'll succumb to your charms? How dare you!'

'Harriet - '

'Do give me some credit for knowing my own mind. Of all the patronising, arrogant, offensive things to say!'

'I wasn't going to say it.'

'Only because even you couldn't possibly think of a way to make it sound polite. Tell me, do you consider yourself some sort of irresistible Casanova, or me to be indiscriminate when I've had a drink? And what the hell are you kicking me for?'

Wimsey withdrew his foot, which had been making a determined assault upon Harriet's ankle.

'Because you are dressed as me,' he said urgently, 'and while under other circumstances I should grant your right to throw your drink in my face, I'd rather you didn't under these. _You_ may think and say what you like of me, but I'd rather not have a reputation as a man who goes round bullying women in public restaurants.'

'Oh.' Harriet was suddenly aware of the waiters tactfully busying themselves. 'I'm sorry. You'd better shout at me a bit to even the score. But,' she continued, outrage bubbling once more, 'how you could possibly think - '

'I don't. Honestly, Harriet, I wasn't thinking that at all. You've much more reason not to trust _me_.'

'What a preposterous idea.'

'I'm glad you say that. Come, Harriet. Wilt thou forgive those sins through which I run, not call for those of which I am free, and have coffee? It sounds like I shall be in need of it, and the waiter is desperate to hear what we've been talking about.'

*

Peter undressed himself in silence in Harriet's hotel room and cleaned her teeth in the private bathroom, grateful for whatever assertion of wealth and defiance had prompted her to insist upon it on her arrival in the town. The white cotton nightgown, trimmed at shoulders and hem with broderie anglaise, made the figure in the mirror above the basin look very young, as if she had barely left college. He turned away rapidly. Peter considered the small sachet of bromide provided by Bunter. He felt some scruples; Harriet, presumably, did not take it and were she to wake herself in the morning she would hardly thank him. Other practices that were wont to prove soporific were not a possibility. He had a sudden horrified vision of Harriet in his place; he would simply have to hope that the situation didn't arise. At least he could be sure she wouldn't tell him if it did; even Harriet's honesty must have its limits.

A crowd of revelers rolled home along the esplanade. Harriet's watch ticked with an appalling noise. Eleven o'clock. Half-past eleven. Twelve. To sleep was perchance to dream, not to sleep was intolerable. To lie in Harriet's bed, in Harriet's body, conscious of every movement, of every fold of cloth against her skin, the mind divided against itself, half in fruitless quest for sleep, half in rigid discipline of the thoughts that might take him there. Δέδυκε μεν ἀ σελάννα καὶ Πληΐαδεσ, μέσαι δὲ... _The moon has set, and the Pleiades_. He flung the watch into the bathroom, and reached for the water glass.

*

Something was shouting, a shrill and persistent shouting that penetrated sleep. Harriet, rousing with a profound reluctance most unlike herself, dimly recognised it as a telephone. In a moment she must answer it. For now, she pulled the bedclothes over her head.

Swift footsteps - whose? - and a man's voice - surely one hadn't, whatever could have possessed one - and a fall into sudden understanding at Bunter's perfectly-controlled tones.

'I regret that his lordship is out, Inspector. Indeed, sir, I’m sure that he would be most interested. Certainly. At 11 o’clock. Good morning, sir.’

'Bunter?' The voice and the hands were still Peter's, and the nose, hovering in the centre of her vision.

‘Good morning, miss. I trust you slept well. Inspector Umplety has telephoned.’

‘So I understood. What does the Wilvercombe Constabulary want with us? We gave our statements the other day.’

‘Indeed, miss. However, there have been developments.’

‘What developments?’

‘The Inspector was not forthcoming on that subject. He invites his lordship and Miss Vane to call at the station this morning. He hinted heavily that interesting revelations would be forthcoming. I took the liberty of assuring him of your presence.’

'Thank you. I assume that I _am_ still his lordship in outward appearances? I certainly seem to be.'

'Yes, miss.'

'Oh dear. You don't happen to know if...?'

'I spoke to his lordship on the telephone earlier this morning. The situation remains as yesterday.'

Harriet's stomach lurched. It had been all very well for a single day, only she had half-expected, she realised, to wake herself again with only inconvenience the need to manufacture an escape from their respective bedrooms.

'I see. Then I suppose we'd better try that other drive as planned. We'll both be fit for the circus if this goes on much longer.'

'I respectfully hope not, miss. His lordship will call at ten o'clock. I have drawn your bath, and taken the liberty of ordering breakfast in half an hour.'

Wimsey arrived promptly at ten to find Harriet breakfasted and reading the newspaper. A brief immersion in a chilly bath had met his social responsibilities, and he was feeling, if not exactly cheerful, in a mood to be hopeful about the prospects of resolution of the situation. He had no great hopes of the day's proposed excursion, but a proper analysis of the situation with Harriet must surely present avenues for exploration. In the meantime, he felt some satisfaction in presenting himself hatless for inspection, receiving in return an apologetic smile that looked decidedly unfamiliar on his own face.

'Inspector Umplety has invited us to the station this morning. Apparently he has 'interesting revelations' for us. Naturally I - or rather Bunter - accepted.'

'Quite right,' said Wimsey. ‘Interestin’ revelations demand our attention. I’m afraid, my dear Harriet, this means we must postpone our drive, unless you’d rather elope with Bunter and test the separation theory?’

‘Bunter must excuse me; Inspector Umplety asked for _you_ , Peter, so unless you’re planning on explaining all, I needs must be present.’

‘I do loathe explanations: it shall be a joint delegation. Here is your hat, let me set it upon my head, and we shall hie us to the delights of Wilvercombe.’

*

Mr Mervyn Bunter walked briskly through the suburban streets of Wilvercombe. His employer had instructed him to meet him with the car after lunch; in the meantime, his time was his own, and Miss Vane's words that morning had struck a faint chord in his brain. By rights he ought to tell his lordship, but his lordship was otherwise occupied. If Bunter's guess had merit, the business had best be investigated as soon as possible. If his hope proved false, one more earth would have been stopped.

Some five minutes later found him in front of a green door in some need of a coat of paint. He rang the bell and stepped swiftly to one side, out of sight of anyone who might feel inclined to peer through the sidelights before opening the door. A faint creak suggested slippered feet within were approaching cautiously - a promising sign. There was a sound of a key turning, a bolt being drawn back, and a brazen head peered out, looked left, right, spotted Mr Bunter and made to retreat, but too late. He rested a solid boot between the door and the jamb.

'Good morning, Mrs LeFranc. You won't mind if come in?'

'However did you guess, dearie?' said that person some time later, offering a plate of macaroons.

'I understood from a comment made by Miss Vane,' said Bunter, carefully setting the cake upon his saucer, 'that you had a former connection to a circus. It put me in mind of a humorous anecdote recounted by a man in his lordship's regiment in the war who had been similarly employed, though in his case the perpetrator, if I may so describe her, was a gypsy. You perhaps were taught the skill by a fortune teller or person of similar talents.'

Mrs LeFranc nodded. 'I was never a performer, but I travelled with my sister for a time, she needing much assistance with her costumes and suchlike. I thought to take up fortune telling, but then I met my husband, so I didn't pursue the profession, but in the meantime I learnt a trick or two.'

'I hope for your sake,' said Mr Bunter, 'that you also learnt to undo your tricks.'

Mrs LeFranc shifted her chair a little further behind the teapot. 'Now there, I regret to say that I did not. But,' she added hastily, 'it's of no matter. It wears off on the third morning.'

'It had better.'

Bunter had consumed his macaroon in the ensuing silence and picked up his hat to depart.

'I am curious, Mrs LeFranc,' he said, 'as to your motivation. Surely neither his lordship nor Miss Vane has done you any harm that you should choose to punish them like this?'

'Punish them, dearie! I swear I never thought of such a thing, soft-hearted as I am. A woman doesn't need to be a fortune teller to see it - especially not with those journalists all poking and prying. I felt sorry for them, poor lambs, and I thought, if it gives them a bit of sympathy for one another it'll be a good thing.'

'In my opinion,' said Bunter, 'I fear it is far more likely to do irreparable damage.'

'Don't say that, Mr Bunter! Break my heart, it would, if I thought I'd come between them. But as I always say, there's no accounting for love, is there?'

To which Bunter could say nothing.

*

Harriet was enjoying herself. It had scarcely escaped her attention during previous interviews that Inspector Umplety was considerably more deferential to, and interested in the opinions of, Lord Peter Wimsey, wealthy criminologist, than Miss Harriet Vane, novelist of dubious repute. Umpelty had lead them with undisguised satisfaction to his office, where he had offered coffee and cigarettes, and the usual pleasantries before getting down to business.

'I expect you're wondering why I asked you to call at the station, my lord.'

'I'm hoping you've something to tell us,' said Harriet. 'Don't tell me they've confessed already! What did you use, Inspector? Thumb-screws or the third degree?'

'I wouldn't hold with that, my lord. Besides, in my experience it's hardly necessary. Give the average criminal a night or so in a cold cell to think about his situation and he soon comes round to appreciating the merits of co-operation. Or in this case, she does. The fact is, Mrs Morecambe's talked.'

'Oh, good work, Inspector!' said Peter. 'Although – what’s she talked about? If she admits to the driving business and claims ignorance of the rest, it might be hard to shift her.'

'That's just it, miss. She admits to the driving, and says that she picked up Henry Weldon as pre-arranged, but that she simply thought he was a friend of her husband who was camping in the area and didn't want to be noticed.'

'But that's ridiculous,' said Harriet. 'Why on earth should Henry Weldon, a complete stranger, be worried about being noticed in his hired car? Unless she claims that was because he was trying to hide from his mother, though really why that would be easier with a lift than his own transport I can't imagine.'

'Quite so, my lord. Mrs Morecambe implied her delicate scruples had forbidden her to speculate, but that she believed there to be a lady in the case. Later, she was informed - so she says - by her husband that Weldon was investigating his mother's connection with Mr Alexis, much like the story he told to you. Later still, she claims to have begun to suspect, for reasons unstated, that Weldon might have had something to do with Alexis' death.'

'What does she say about Mr Morecambe?'

'That she didn't suspect him at all. Says he didn't tell her about the barber masquerade until afterwards, that when he went off it was with general talk of a walking holiday to get him away from the City for his health, and that he had a fine idea for a play that he wanted to try out at bit before talking to her about it.'

'I don't see how that will do Morecambe-Bright much good,' said Harriet. 'We've pots of evidence to connect him to Weldon and the razor.'

'I don't say it was meant him any good,' answered the Inspector. 'It's her own skin she's thinking of.'

'Yes,' said Peter. 'To my mind she was in it up to her neck. They must have planned for her to be - they couldn't manage the alibi business without her. You might even find that she drove Morecambe part of the way to Seahampton. There's just a possibility he might have been recognised in his disguise at a London station, much simpler to drop him off in a town along the way and let him get a train where he won't be known.'

'I daresay that's how you'd put it in a book, miss, and I don't say that isn't what they planned. We'll ask at the stations, of course, but with all the trippers nowadays I don't hold out much hope there. The fact is, I reckon Mrs Morecambe was in on it as much as the others. By all accounts she's an expensive lady, and her husband's business wasn't bringing in enough for those fancy clothes and things.'

'Can that really be all?' said Harriet. 'What a trivial motive for murder.'

'Men murder for trivialities all the time,' said Peter. 'I don't see why women shouldn't.'

'Whatever her motive,' said Umplety, 'if she doesn't talk, and they don't split on her – and even if Weldon does, if her husband doesn't a good defence can work with that well enough - she might think that even if we charge her we'll only do it as an accessory.'

Peter nodded. 'Even if Morecambe wanted to claim she was co-responsible he might be hard put to it. You've no evidence, I suppose, that she went to Weldon's place in Huntingdonshire?'

'None at all. Mrs Sterne's a sensible woman and she's adamant that Mr Field, as he called himself, came and went alone. Moreover Mrs Morecambe's housekeeper said she was definitely in London at the time, got out the calendar and everything, and I don't think there's enough love there that she'd perjure herself for her mistress. No, I don't mind saying that I'm glad enough that one of them's talking, because last night I couldn't see how I could get the Chief-Constable to prosecute, but with Mrs Morecambe corroborating dates and talking tearfully about how she began to dread that something was fearfully wrong, we might have something. I hate to let her go, she's a cold one if ever there were, but two out of three would be better than none, and we may win them all yet.'

'Good luck with it, Inspector.'

'Thank you, my lord. You said you're returning to London tomorrow, and Miss Vane, too?'

'Yes,' said Peter, rapidly. 'I'm sorry not to finish my walking tour, but I've been away quite long enough already and I must see my publisher.'

'Quite understandable, miss. Of course, we'll need you for the trial, but that'll be some months yet.'

Harriet felt suddenly rather sick, as, judging by her own white face, did Peter. They made their farewells, and left feeling subdued.

'That was illuminating,' said Peter some minutes later, as they made their way along the Esplanade towards the Bellevue.

'Wasn't it? I wonder how the Chief Constable will feel about not charging Mrs Morecambe;

'I shall be intrigued to learn what angle they take at that trial the Inspector so kindly mentioned. But that wasn't what I meant.'

'Oh?'

'Harriet, please allow me to apologise to you personally, and as representative of your sex, for all the occasions I have sat in a room with you and let somebody else talk to me.'

'It was rather noticeable, wasn't it?' said Harriet. 'Umplety's not entirely averse to my being in on things, at least now he doesn't think I'm the murderer myself, but one feels there is decided element of humouring the lady about it - or the novelist, perhaps.'

'It's still abominably rude.'

'Yes, but I can hardly go around telling people that, can I? One's so often in places on sufferance as it is.'

'Hmm. I shall endeavour to notice more henceforth.'

'That would be very nice of you. But Peter, I owe _you_ an apology for my appalling conduct last night. I'm sorry, it was rotten of me.'

'It doesn't matter in the least. I wasn't at my best myself.'

'I don't think I can stand much more of this. It's all very fascinating being you, and the experience will come in handy if I want to know exactly where the murderous barber stands to cut his customer's throat, or have Robert Templeton discover a corpse in a men's public lavatory, but what are we to do if this carries on? Two days of trying hard not do think about how long it might go on for, or what if we never change back, is about as much as I can take.'

Peter rubbed a hand across his face and flinched slightly.

'I feel the same. Sometimes it seems too impossible to take seriously, and that tomorrow I shall wake with a thermometer in my mouth and nurse pronouncing that the fever is abating. But we _must_ put our heads together and address it properly.'

'Then you don't think it will work, your heading off with Bunter?'  
'I haven't the least idea,' admitted Peter. 'Your _genius loci_ isn't a bad hypothesis, but as far as evidence is concerned we've no more reason to think it's that than any other explanation.'

'Other than that we _are_ here,' said Harriet. 'Why here? Why Wilvercombe? And why now that the investigation's over?'

'That, my dear Harriet, is what we must discover. Here is my hotel, let us hope that lunch inspires us -'

'I say,' interrupted Harriet, 'isn't that Bunter?'

'So it is. What do you here, Bunter? There is a gleam in your eye that presages much. Have you news? Then say on! Our trembling hopes repose in your bosom. At least, mine does. Miss Vane may beg to differ.'

'Not in the least,' said Harriet.

'Thank you, my lord. I have taken the liberty of ordering lunch in your lordship's suite. I have some information to impart that would be most conveniently delivered in a secluded situation.'

Wimsey and Harriet listened in silence as Bunter unfolded his tale of the morning's events over lunch for three.

'Bunter, I don't know what we'd do without you. The relief of Lucknow was nothing to it.'

'I can still hardly believe that Mrs LeFranc was behind it all,' said Harriet. 'She was always so friendly when I was lodging with her. What on earth was she thinking?'

'I regret that in the exigencies of the moment I neglected to enquire as to that point.'

'I don't suppose it matters, anyway.'

Wimsey, who had greater experience of his valet, said nothing but resolved to press him upon this point at a later date.

'Whatever her reasons,' he said, 'and fascinatin' as it has been to learn how the other half lives, I'm jolly glad that it will be over soon. Change is not made without inconvenience, even from worse to better, and this inconvenience threatened to be considerable. I could not possibly carry off the profession of a mystery novelist, and you, Harriet, do not deserve my relations. I don't suppose Mrs LeFranc divulged _when_ during the night we would change back?'

'No, my lord. Only that it would be at some point in the small hours and when you were both asleep.'

'Hmm. That leaves us with the question of who takes which bed for the night. Have you any preference, Harriet?'

'As long as I've a roof and a pair of pyjamas, I'm not sure that I care.'

'I would suggest, miss, that as the change of rooms in the morning has already been tested, it would be simplest to repeat the procedure and for you to sleep and breakfast in his lordship's room.'

'I suppose that makes sense if you don't mind it, Peter?'

'Oh no - as long as Bunter packs me a razor. But first we have the afternoon. Is there anything you'd particularly like to do as me in the name of research? Shall we go to London and you can tour my clubs?'

'I think that that would involve too much acting. Tell you what, let's go for a drive.'

*

Harriet, clad in Peter's pyjamas on the grounds that they would fit whatever shape she woke up in, climbed into bed that evening feeling surprisingly restless. The afternoon had been rather entertaining. They had taken a lengthy drive, almost into Cornwall, followed up with a substantial tea that had obviated the need to endure another dinner in the Bellevue's excessively classical dining room, and a walk on the Wilvercombe beach to kill the rest of the evening. It had been strange, washing and changing for a last time as Peter, observing the outward semblance of the man that she should not see again unless they - which could hardly happen now. She must buy a new toothbrush. As Peter she had used his without a qualm, but the thought of taking back her own after Peter's using it was oddly repulsive. That would be the same whoever it was, of course, she'd have felt just the same with Phil. There was something unpleasantly visceral about toothbrushes.

Sometime later Harriet had profitably sketched the plot of a short story in which the villain was discovered through his failure to account for denture fixative, but was no nearer to sleep. She wondered whether Bunter had such a thing as a sleeping pill about him, but it felt rather rotten to disturb his rest for the sake of hers. No doubt Peter would have no such qualms, but the situation was different. It would have helped if certain parts of her current anatomy wouldn't suggest that attention would be welcomed. _That_ took no effort to ignore; the inevitable ensuing speculation about Peter's evening routine was more intrusive. Somewhere a clock chimed midnight. If she wasn't asleep in half an hour, then damn Bunter's beauty sleep. She slept.

*

Peter laid down _Tristram Shandy_ , switched off the light, and composed himself to sleep in every expectation of not doing so. He felt queerly disembodied, as if in anticipation of whatever process should transport him back to himself. Tomorrow all would be as it ought again and they would drive home to London and then to goodness knew what. Bunter had confessed as to Mrs LeFranc's motives and Peter felt equally sceptical of their outcome. Knowing what he did of Harriet it seemed unlikely that the experience would persuade her that she wished to see more of him in the future. Not, from the sound of it, that there was much more to see. Vanity took the small consolation that on that front at least she had show no signs of displeasure.

He had drawn the curtains, but they were thin and in the dim light he saw the shadow of Harriet's hands before his face. They were unremarkable hands, slender, neither small nor large, lightly tanned by her interrupted holiday, and he had only to look at them to burn. The fingers slid over one another in a cat's cradle. They pressed against his face, his breath warm against her palms. One hand was caught against the pillow, resting against his cheek; the fingers of the other stroked the short hairs at his temple. He kissed her palms urgently, and each finger, and the palms again, and folded her hands and drew them away. What did it matter anyhow? There had been times in the last three weeks when he had thought she might - but now she was surely as far away as ever. The room had darkened, and he suddenly felt dead tired. He slept.

*

For the second time Mervyn Bunter entered his lordship's bedroom in the Hotel Bellevue to discover Miss Vane in it. On this occasion she was not asleep, but seated at the dressing table inspecting her face in the looking glass.

'Good morning, miss.'

'Hello, Bunter. I seem to be all present and correct. Have you heard from Lord Peter?'

'Yes, miss. His lordship reports that he has returned to his usual form, and, with your permission, I will remove him from your hotel at half-past nine.'

'Thank you - and for looking after me for the last few days. I'm really very grateful.'

'It was my pleasure.'

'I don't suppose you have such a thing as a new toothbrush?'

'Certainly, miss. I have laid one out in the bathroom, in case of your wishing to bathe before breakfast.'

'Thank you, I think that I will.'

Bunter had provided not only a toothbrush, but towels, a fresh cake of soap, and her own hairbrush, cleaned and polished. Harriet's gratitude was tempered by the reflection that had it not been for Bunter's advice she might have been dressing in her own hotel room, washed, dressed, breakfasted and shortly to be on the train to London. Instead of which she was stuck here waiting for Peter and with no courteous way of avoiding spending the next several hours in the car with the man. Not that one could blame Peter himself, who had behaved with impeccably over the whole affair. An inspection of her restored self showed it the same as ever, the only sign of Peter's possession the professionally manicured fingernails, a favour Harriet had not returned. During the last few days Harriet had not looked beyond the return to her own form; now that she was herself again, it was impossible not to look back. One couldn't forget, and what could one possibly say? At least Bunter would also be in the car, and even Peter, accustomed to saying what he liked in front of the servants, could hardly expect Harriet to feel the same.

In the event, Peter showed no more inclination for conversation than Harriet felt, even with Bunter despatched on the express train. He took the roads at some speed, and Harriet, who had discovered on a previous unsuccessful outing that even fast driving as good as Peter's frightened her half to death, gritted her teeth and resolved to show no outward sign. Peter did not appear to notice.

Somewhere outside Salisbury he seemed to remember his manners, slackened their pace, and exerted himself in a babble of cheerfully inconsequential conversation. The atmosphere lightened, although the question of their recent experiences remained firmly closed. Harriet pulled herself firmly together. One could scarcely avoid things forever, much better to get it over with. She cast about for some way to raise the subject.

'I must apologise. I'm afraid that I always assumed that the monocle was an affectation. It isn't, is it? The right eye is decidedly weaker.'

'A less generous soul would attribute that to the monocle,' said Peter, 'although as a matter of fact it isn't.'

He seemed reluctant to continue the conversation and Harriet did not pursue it. They drove several miles before Peter suddenly drew the car to the side of the road and turned to her.

'I'm sorry, Harriet. I simply don't know what to say about it. We could try to forget - '

'I don't know that I can.'

'Nor I.'

He turned the car to the road again, and they continued to London in silence.

*

After several weeks of brisk sea breezes, Harriet found the London air unpleasantly heavy. She had declined Wimsey's invitation to lunch on the grounds that she had an appointment with her agent, and he had accepted with a subdued courtesy that could not quite conceal an air of relief, though the fervent press of her hand at parting did not suggest that recent events had put him off for good.

She mounted the steps to a hastily-arranged meeting with Mr Challoner with a sense of coming back to her real life. He was complimentary of her handling of the press over the Alexis affair, gently remonstrative over her refusal to introduce a love-interest to _The Fountain-Pen Mystery_ , which had caused him some difficulties with _The Daily Message_ , and eager to know how the novel was getting on. Harriet, who was not prone to be beforehand with her manuscripts, reassured him that recent events notwithstanding, progress was well in hand to meet the autumn lists. She might even, she continued, manage the Christmas short story he had been asking her for. After that, she would have to see.

'I wondered,' said Mr Challoner, 'as your holiday was so unfortunately interrupted, whether you'd given any further thought to your idea of setting a novel on the continent? Foreign settings are very popular at the moment, and I think that we could secure some very good contracts, particularly in the American market. If you're thinking of the costs,' he added, 'you might write a couple of travel articles as well. If you'll forgive my saying so it would do no harm to associate your name with something other than murder, and it would be good advance publicity for any book. Of course,' he added, recollecting certain themes in the recent press, 'if you didn't choose to travel at the moment we could think of something else.'

'There's no need for that,' said Harriet, rapidly. 'I think that a continental trip could be just the thing I'm afraid I'll have to wait for the Assizes, but once that's over - and I've finished _The Fountain-Pen Mystery_ \- there'll be nothing to keep me in London.'

Mr Challoner, duly corrected, murmured appreciation of this decided plan, and offered his secretary's assistance in dealing with the travel agent. He was a business-minded man with high hopes for the long-term prospects of Miss Vane. A connection with Wimsey would no doubt bring publicity, and almost any publicity was good for sales, as Miss Vane knew all too well, but marriage was apt to be bad for books. He escorted his visitor to the door with a feeling of satisfaction.

It struck Mr Challoner only later that perhaps his client's enthusiasm for a continental trip might reflect the prospect of company. Marriage was not the only option, but one could scarcely live quietly unmarried in London with Lord Peter Wimsey in the manner that was possible with an obscure radical author. Especially having scarcely escaped hanging for that very thing and achieving thereby, however unwanted, the status of a minor celebrity. Mr Challoner was not of a romantic temperament, but the potential of several weeks even in separate hotels in a watering place had not escaped him, and the prospects offered by year or so of continental travel were all the greater. It was with some anxiety that he left the office for his bus.

Meanwhile Harriet, unaware of the turmoil in her agent's breast, was thinking that a companion might be wise. If she spared a moment to think how it might be were that companion Peter Wimsey, she did not admit it. The traditional paid companion was unappealing. A woman friend, then. But most of one's friends were busy with their own work. She must give some thought to it. Calling at a bookshop en route to her flat she purchased as a beginning a guide to France, and one to Spain. _Could_ she finish _The Fountain Pen Mystery_ before the Assizes? It would certainly keep her mind off them, and in her own flat, in her own shape, with no distractions and the prospect of escape she ought to be able to write, if nowhere else. She bent to work.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on my Dreamwidth journal at https://nineveh-uk.dreamwidth.org/178940.html (but only linked at LJ because it is too long!)


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